Maybe Even Meant to Be
by someone5
Summary: “What now?” he asks, almost reluctantly, eyes trained to the sidewalk, not wanting to hear the answer whether it be good or bad. He’s not sure which one to hope for. LIT, oneshot. Sequel to Everybody Loves You.


**Title: **Maybe Even Meant To Be

**Summary: **"What now?" he asks, almost reluctantly, eyes trained to the sidewalk, not wanting to hear the answer whether it be good or bad. He's not sure which one to hope for.

**Notes:** _A companion piece to "Everybody Loves You."_

- - -

Her eyes look better; more of a mercury now, versus their previous grey.

It takes just as much to convince him as it does herself but after seconds minutes hours days (she's not sure), he nods his head curtly, mentally checking off a box next to a number on an invisible list. A list born of a compulsion initiated through her, she hopes.

"What now?" he asks, almost reluctantly, eyes trained to the sidewalk, not wanting to hear the answer whether it be good or bad. He's not sure which one to hope for.

She replies with a hesitant kiss, close-lipped and unsure, but powerful just the same. His hands disappear into the cascade of her chestnut hair and she doesn't pull away, not this time, and he knows it's real and sincere and maybe even meant to be.

He leads her back to his apartment wordlessly, but it's not like with Logan; the quiet is comforting and intimate and not at all because he simply doesn't want to talk. It's because they don't need words or sentences or sounds, except of course for the small, barely audible gasps that escape their throats periodically when they're touching one another for the first time in a long time.

His room is small but the bed is soft and his roommates are gone so they don't have to worry about keeping quiet. The gold dust of his eyes moves with the pupils, back forth up down, appraising every curve, every blemish, every facet of her body. She never thought she'd feel this comfortable while this exposed, but those wandering eyes are _his_ wandering eyes and she decides it doesn't bother her that much. In fact, it doesn't bother her at all and she smiles, moving her hands up to be lost in the tangle of curls atop his head, pulling him down for another kiss. She can't get enough of them. Soft and sweet and reminiscent of when she was 17 (oh, so many years ago), young and pure and honest and hopeful. When she's with him, especially when she kisses him, she remembers who she was, who she's supposed to be, who she wants to be, and the thought of losing that (of losing him) scares her more than anything ever has.

If she loses him she'll lose herself all over again and she knows she can't handle that a second time.

But she won't lose him, she knows she won't, so she closes her eyes and pushes the thought aside and kisses him again, pulling his body to cover hers. He eagerly obliges, always eager, and his hands retrace the trails they made in her dreams. She looks down to see red burn marks on her skin from where he's claimed her to be his. Skin and lips red and swollen from his constant attention.

She tells him about it later, admitting under the dull lamp light that she's worried about this, worried because every time they find each other, the cosmos align to pull them apart. He laughs and tells her that divine intervention may be a little presumptuous. She laughs too, laughs because it feels good to finally let go and although her throat is rusty and the sound is broken, she's glad to feel that bubbling in her belly, glad to feel her lips uncontrollably tug upwards. But the moment passes and he looks at her seriously now, whispering reassurances in her ear that she doesn't quite hear because his fingers are lazily tracing circles around her navel and she can't breath can't think doesn't want to. She cuts him off with her lips and presses her hips flush against his, urging his fingers to go lower and they do, dipping between her legs. He's even better than all the dreams.

- - -

She turns off her phone and stays with him for five whole days, ignoring calls from Logan and Lane, and even Lorelai (for the first 24 hours, at least). But one night when Jess goes out to pick up dinner, she picks up her cell and ignores the blinking light telling her that she has new messages because she knows whom they're from and instead calls her mom. She's concerned, of course, concerned because it's not like Rory to pick up and disappear; also, but to a lesser extent, because Logan is panicked. Rory calmly explains where she is and she tries to not sound too excited because Lorelai never liked Jess, not really, but her mother is surprisingly supportive while being understandably shocked.

Rory tells her about watching the sun rise. How it felt like a new beginning.

- - -

The soft skin of his stomach visibly quivers underneath her exploring hands, counting his abdominal muscles down the sharp point of his hipbone. He catches her wrist then, explaining that if she doesn't redirect her quest they'd never leave the room. She giggles and tells him that she doesn't want to, that they could live off of take-out and watch pay-per-view and never get dressed. He especially likes the sound of that last part, he admits this much, but he has Truncheon and Matt and Chris and she has Yale and the paper and Lorelai. After twenty more minutes of soft kisses and gentle assurances, they promise to call and part ways.

She makes it back onto the highway before giving in and dialing those seven precious numbers, hearing it ring one two thre- two times before he picks up with a grin (she can hear it in his voice) and playfully asks her if she forgot something.

"I just wanted to make sure" is all she says; it's all she has to say for him to know what she means and for a second she's almost uncertain of the answer he'll give.

"I'm sure. Are you sure?"

"Of course," she breathes.

_I do I can I will I won't I want to._

_I do I can I will I won't I want to love you._

_I do._


End file.
